


Relive

by ShipThePuppy



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst?, Blood, I lied, M/M, Non permanent character death, Or not so weekly, Rated for dark themes, Repetition AU, Technically major character death, Updated weekly, better late than never, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7683547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipThePuppy/pseuds/ShipThePuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kouki knew intimately what it felt like to die, and then relive the day like it never happened. The problem was, nobody else did.</p><p>Or: Just because you fix it, doesn't mean it was never broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be updated weekly. It was originally intended to be a oneshot, buuuuuut got a bit out of hand so I’m gonna release it in five parts instead. Loosely inspired by Kenny from South Park.
> 
> Feels good to post something again.

Kouki’s familiarity with death began at an early age. The first time, he was four. He shouldn’t have been able to remember it so well, but he remembered them all vividly. His parents told the story with smiles, giggling into their hands.

“You were so frantic,” his mother said. “You clung to my skirt and kept crying, ‘It’ll hurt me, Mommy!’ You refused to cross the street until all the cars were gone.”

Kouki laughed with her, but in his head, he told the story differently.

That day when he was four, was also the first time he died. He remembered crossing the street, his hand slipping from his mother’s, falling behind. A car barreling down the street. The feeling of impact, losing air as it was all shoved from his lungs. The crunch and wet sound of bone snapping out of place. The taste of blood in his mouth before his vision went dark.

And then waking up in bed on the same morning, reliving it all up to that point at the crosswalk, and refusing to take one step until the car that had hit him—the car that had _killed_ him—had passed by.

Yes. Kouki remembered it very differently.

Kouki didn’t understand what was happening the first year or two. Every few days or so, he would die. He thought at first that they were just dreams, and would try to go about his day normally. But if he didn’t heed what he’d learned, if everything played out exactly as before, he would die again. And wake up back to that morning, to relive it again. And again. And again, until he changed something to avoid whatever calamity had befallen him.

He tried telling his parents, once. They told him he was just having nightmares. When he insisted, they became worried. They were convinced he was sick. That he needed medication, and therapy. His older brother thought he was lying.

“Don’t be such a crybaby,” he said. “You don’t have to make stuff up just to get mom and dad to pay attention to you.”

No matter how many times he died and relived the same day, he was the only one who ever remembered. Kouki stopped talking about it after that.

The caution and anxiety followed naturally. He did everything with hesitance. When he couldn’t hesitate, he rushed. Even friendships. By middle school, he’d had two best friends that he’d stopped talking to within three months.

The first had seen him die three times. He didn’t remember, of course. But Kouki did. The way his friend had screamed his name over and over before Kouki lost consciousness. And then the day would restart, and Kouki’d see his friend smiling, never knowing that in another version of that day, he’d been sobbing next to a corpse. Even though they didn’t remember it themselves, it hurt watching his friends break down again and again.

The second best friend only saw him die once before Kouki distanced himself. It was easier that way.

His third best friend came in his final year of middle school. A boy named Fukuda. This time, when Kouki attempted to move on, Fukuda wouldn’t let him.

“I don’t know what I did to make you ignore me,” he said one day on the school roof, “but I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Kouki held his knees to his chest, sitting far from the fenced-in edge. He knew better than to take the chance. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” Fukuda sat in front of him. “You keep avoiding me, and it makes me worried, Furi.”

“But I don’t _want_ you to worry! That’s the whole point!”

“Is this about your panic attacks?” Kouki glanced up at him. “You think I didn’t notice? Furi, I know you’re anxious and scared, but if you think shutting me out is for the best, you’re wrong. Of course I’m going to worry, you’re my _best friend_.” Fukuda clenched his hands. “But shouldn’t deciding whether I stick around be my decision?”

Kouki hid his face. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Fukuda brightened, and gently punched his shoulder. “Hey, it’s cool, man.”

He repeated, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

But he was. He was incredibly sorry that he didn’t deny Fukuda. That he was going to make his friend watch him die countless times in the future, without ever knowing it. Kouki was too selfish to stay away when Fukuda kept coming back.

“Hey.” Kouki looked up, and Fukuda smiled. “It’s really okay.”

In his mind, he saw Fukuda’s face from a previous version of that same day, messy with tears and twisted in panic, Kouki’s blood streaked along one cheek.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought again, before smiling back. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

*****

They both ended up at Seirin in high school. By some twist of fate, so did Kouki’s middle school crush. Fukuda pushed him to confess, and Kouki took a chance. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to say yes or no.

Her rejection was both a relief and a disappointment. On one hand, Kouki wanted that romantic connection. He wanted something soft and gentle, that made his heart race in a way that wasn’t related to fear. At the same time, he didn’t know if he could handle seeing the face of someone he had feelings for every time he died in front of them. It would be like his friendship situation, but ramped up to eleven.

However, getting rejected created a new problem. To try and win his crush over, Fukuda talked him into joining the basketball team.

He hadn’t expected to like it. He’d planned to stick with the library committee alone, one of the safest groups in the school. Sports opened the door to all sorts of violent accidents. Even innocently intentioned ones, like when Coach had them yell their confessions on the roof at the morning assembly. Unlike the high chain-link at his middle school, Seirin’s rooftop fence was low. One hard, well-meaning pat from Kagami took him by surprise as he was carefully leaning over the bars to yell out, and sent him tumbling over.

He closed his eyes as the ground rushed up to meet him, his own screams drowned out by the crowd of students around him. He hit hard, with barely enough time to feel the sharp jolt of pain ricochet through his bones before passing out. Dying from a fall had to be one of his preferred ways to die. They usually ended the quickest.

The next time around, he avoided standing as close to the fence.

*****

Kouki’d never had this many friends before. If enjoying basketball itself had been a surprise, the new, quick connections he made with his teammates were even more so. He wasn’t dying as much as he’d feared, either. The number of days he relived hardly increased from his previous average. He spent all his time during games on the bench, one of the safest places to be. The only times he’d died so far were during practices and his everyday life. (That didn’t make him any less cautious, though.)

It was nice. Having so many people around, so many voices that sought his attention and distraction, made it easier to hush constant thrum of nerves aching in his stomach. Quietly, to himself, he was grateful.

He was also overwhelmingly guilty.

He hated the deaths that lingered. They happened here and there, leaving him conscious until the bloodloss or otherwise knocked him out. That was when he saw his teammates at their most vulnerable, their most afraid.

He couldn’t even comfort them, not really. It only got worse as they became closer. After one gruesome accident left him bleeding heavily, one leg severed clean off, he watched Kagami scream and punch the sidewalk over and over until his knuckles were bruised and split. Kuroko kneeled at Kouki’s side, his already pale skin bleached bone white as he held Kouki’s hand. Juxtaposed to Kagami’s frustrated, broken screams, Kuroko didn’t say a word. He held so still, Kouki could have believed that _Kuroko_ was the one dying were it not for the barest trembling in his thin fingers.

On the days he relived he’d speak to the witnesses one by one, without fail.

“I’m sorry,” he’d say.

Each time, they’d look confused, never knowing what he was apologizing for. But Kouki knew, even if they didn’t.

*****

The day Coach asked him to accompany Kuroko at the Winter Cup, Kouki’d gone an entire week without dying. It was almost a new record. He should have expected that streak to be broken.

His gut churned with every moment spent in the presence of such intimidating players. While he never felt completely safe, most days he could manage his anxiety to a fair degree. Surrounded by the Generation of Miracles, who barely paid him a moment’s attention beyond a wondering glance, his instincts were screaming.

The worst was when they approached, and Akashi Seijuurou stared down at them from the top of the steps with an expression of chilling reprimand. “You’re late, Tetsuya.”

“I’m sorry, Akashi-kun.”

Then Akashi’s eyes skipped over to Kouki, his mouth set in a line of disapproval. “There’s someone who shouldn’t be here.” He took a single step down the stairs. “Right now, I only want to talk to my comrades. Sorry, but can you leave?”

Kouki opened and closed his mouth a few times, his throat dry, wanting to say that there was nothing he’d like to do more.

From behind Akashi, a bicyclist came careening toward the steps, calling, “Look out!”

Akashi dodged deftly to the side as the bicycle whizzed by, taking the stairs with obvious skill. What was also obvious was that the cyclist noticed Kuroko too late to avoid him.

Panicking, Kouki darted forward to shove Kuroko out of the way. In his place, Kouki collided with the bike. It pitched forward, the rider flipping over the handlebars. He crashed to the ground atop Kouki at an awkward angle, the majority of his weight thrown behind his shoulder as it struck Kouki’s chest.

Kouki heard the _crack_ in his torso even as his head snapped back into the pavement, his vision turning a blinding white for several seconds. His ears rang.

By the time the pain in his head dimmed enough for him to focus his vision once more, the cyclist had been pulled off of him.

“Furihata-kun!” Kuroko crouched at his side, his hands hovering near his face. “Are you alright?”

He blinked once. Twice. The back of his head felt hot. He took a heavy breath—

And then turned onto his side as something in his chest protested, a slick and warm fluid coming up his throat. He covered his mouth with his hand, but he could feel it dripping down his chin. His lungs _burned_.

When he pulled his hand back, the taste of salt and metal heavy in his mouth, his palm was smeared red.

Oh. Kouki swallowed, and coughed some more. Blood splattered the ground. It dripped from his lips.

Tears gathered in his eyes, half from the pain that shock and adrenaline could only hold at bay so much, and half from disappointment. He’d been doing _so well._

Cool hands cupped his face, redirecting his attention. Kuroko stared at him, face the same bone-white as the time he’d severed his leg. Behind him, the cyclist was sobbing out shaky apologies Kouki could barely hear through buzzing white noise. For some reason, he thought he could hear Kagami somewhere, too.

“Furihata-kun.” Kuroko’s voice pushed through the haze. “You’ll be okay. Akashi-kun is calling an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.”

Except he wouldn’t. Kouki knew that. He was never ‘fine.’ No matter what the odds were, Kouki would always be on the losing end. He’d died to stranger things before, had his body broken by accidents that most would have walked away from with nothing but a few bruises and an entertaining story to tell. Kouki was never that lucky.

But he had no way of telling Kuroko that. Kuroko, stubborn as he was beneath that placid face, would hold out hope for him to the very end, and only then would he break down. Just like every other time.

So Kouki took a wet, rattling breath, and managed to say a shaky, “I’m sorry,” before dissolving into more coughs. On his next breath he added, “I’ll be faster next time.”

Kuroko’s fingers took on a barely-there, familiar trembling on his cheeks.

By the time the ambulance arrived, he’d begun to slip into unconsciousness. He barely felt anything beyond the pain and the heat of blood in his mouth. When he finally faded, he was almost grateful.

*****

 Kouki wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious before he died. How long it was didn’t matter, though, as he woke up that same morning in his bed again. He sat up, blankets pooling at his waist, and sighed. He resolved to be faster this time.

Except, for some reason, he didn’t have to be.

The day played out the same as before, all the way up to leaving with Kuroko to attend his meeting with his former teammates. This time, however, Akashi wasn’t there when they arrived. He showed up late, apologizing with a small excuse.

Akashi said all the same things as before, but the look he gave Kouki before asking to leave was longer, his mouth turned into a frown instead of a harsh line. And even as Kouki hovered closer to Kuroko, ready to _pull_ him out of harm’s way this time, the cyclist never came.

For the first time, Kouki hadn’t had to change something himself.

As much as he wanted to linger on the thought, his attention was diverted by Kagami’s arrival. After that, the flash of scissors and his trembling knees make him too glad when it’s all over to care.

*****

Kouki managed to get through the Winter Cup with only a few more incidents, all outside of games, barring one during the game against Rakuzan. In an attempt to get the ball and score a point, he’d ended up behind the largest player on Rakuzan’s team, and a quick, accidental elbow to the head sent him crashing to floor, his head snapping back with a harsh noise.

He remembered Akashi standing over him, red and gold eyes wide, before he blacked out.

When he woke up to relive the day again, he wondered what had killed him. He’d died enough times to theorize the causes, and morbidly search the internet when he was uncertain. This time, it had probably been a brain hemorrhage.

Later that day the game played out much the same, except this time whenever he even got close to the tall guy, Akashi was always there. That ended up fine, and he scored a point later as a result of changing his approach.

He didn’t think much about it until long after the game, when the feeling of victory had dimmed to a pleasant warmth in his chest, and he’d managed to get home and to bed without another incident. It was the second time Akashi had been the one to change in a repeat day.

Kouki buried his head in his pillow, and figured it was nothing.


	2. Recall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! Sorry if it's a lot of exposition, the real meat is coming up next.

At six years old, Akashi Seijuurou clung to his mother’s skirts.

Her finger, long and thin and cool, ran through his hair. She turned her attention from the rose bushes lining one of the many garden paths of their home, and tilted his head up with a gentle touch beneath his chin.

“What’s wrong, Seijuurou?”

Seijuurou leaned into her touch, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed thin. “There’s something wrong with Shirogane-san.”

Shiori gracefully kneeled. She cupped his face, and smoothed out the line of his brow, returning softness to his expression. “What’s wrong with him?”

This young, Seijuurou didn’t know how to explain. He lacked the experience and words to describe what he felt. To his childhood tongue, the only way to pin down the sudden feeling of impermanence, of inexplicable danger and wrongness, that hung around Shirogane-san and made Seijuurou’s stomach churn, was to say it simply.

“Something bad,” he said, and his breath stuttered.

The next day, news came to the house that Shirgane-san suffered a heart attack in the night, and passed away.

*****

His mother kept a closer eye on him. She didn’t address his words, and he never brought them up. A few months later, the feeling came back. This time it was a young maid. She set a plate with an afternoon snack for he and his mother on the garden table. As she went to pull back, Seijuurou grabbed her wrist.

She startled. “Young master?”

Seijuurou didn’t answer. The feeling was back. It clung to her like an invisible aura, the same _wrong_ ness that had taken over Shirogane-san. It destroyed his appetite, and made his mouth taste of bile. He wanted to tell her this, but didn’t know how. So instead, he let go, and turned his head down.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The maid nodded, and headed back inside.

Across the table, Shiori stirred her tea, one eye on her son. “What’s wrong, Seijuurou?”

“I,” he paused, “I feel bad.”

“Are you sick?”

He shook his head, and tried to eat his snack.

Hours later, the maid died in a car accident.

*****

After that, his mother began pulling him aside.

With his head in her lap, she ran her fingers through his hair, and whispered secrets. Theories about what was happening to him. Things about herself he’d never known. It took a few months for all the secrets to be told, bit by bit, until he had a grasp on the full picture.

His mother saw death everywhere she went. She watched them die in one blink, and continue along just fine in the next.

“What I see are possibilities,” she explained. “At least, that’s what I’ve worked it out as. I’m seeing small glimmers of untold potential realities; the many ways a person could have died. Only, I never know which is actually real until it’s too late.

“Yours isn’t as strong,” she continued. “Instead of seeing all the deaths that _might_ occur, you’re sensing the one that _will_.”

And then, one day, she pressed her forehead to his, inconsolably sad. “I’m sorry, Seijuurou. You get this from me. I’m sorry to have passed this burden onto you.”

Seijuurou forgave her, though he’d never blamed her to begin with.

It became their secret. He understood better, now, why she sequestered herself in the garden so often. Why she so rarely left the mansion. It explained why, whenever they were in the car together, she brought a book along and never looked out the windows. The fewer people she had to see, the less the _saw_.

She spent most of her time with Seijuurou, listening to him recount his day at school or whatever book he was reading at the time. Some days she became pale and glassy-eyed as he spoke. Others, she’d suddenly pull him close, insisting on holding him. Seijuurou didn’t mind, and continued his story.

(When he was older he realized what those moments were, and wondered how many times she’d watched him die without him noticing.)

Seijuurou experienced the bad feeling a handful of other times. Always with strangers, in and out of his life too quickly for him to feel sad. In that time, his mother fell ill. She was confined to the house, usually he bed, for rest. Seijuurou never worried. As long as there was no bad feeling around her, he knew she’d be fine.

Months before he was set to start middle school, that changed.

*****

Seijuurou waited for permission to enter following his knock before he entered his mother’s room. The curtains hung open, sunlight streaming through tall panes of glass to cover Shiori’s bed in pale yellow. She sat against the headboard, back cushioned by pillows and blanket pulled up to her waist. She turned from the window to smile at Seijuurou. Purple bruises mottled the skin beneath her eyes.

“Good morning, Seijuurou.” She held out her hand, urging him to take it and join her on the bed.

But he didn’t take it. Instead, he froze halfway between her and the door, growing paler by the second.

“Seijuurou?” She sat up straighter, red hair slipping over her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

His skin prickled along his back, over his neck. A steady throb built at the base of his skull. The muscles in his throat contracted.

The bad feeling draped over his mother like a blanket.

She must have read it in his expression, because hers shifted. Her eyes widened, her lips trembled. She inhaled heavily. “Oh.” The fear in her expression was blatant, until she pulled a wide smile, covering it as best she could. “Come here, Sei.”

The sound of the rarely used nickname had him scrambling to the bed, though it took some coaxing for him to climb on and sit at her side. Once there, she tucked him against her chest, her cheek atop his head and fingers running along his back.

“It will be alright,” she murmured. “You’ll be okay.”

Her lack of the word ‘I’ made a knot in his throat that hitched his breaths. He gripped her tight, a tremble in his hands. Face buried against her collar, enveloped in the sweet, warm smell of the garden, he hiccupped. Shiori’s murmurs took on an incomprehensible quality, more comforting noises than words.

By the time someone came to fetch him for school, his face was a mess of tears. He didn’t want to leave, but his mother gently ushered him from her arms. Before he left, she pressed a long kiss to his forehead.

“I love you,” she said.

In the last image he has of her alive, she’s smiling, the windows a beautiful light at her back. But he didn’t get far enough down the hall to miss the sound of her sobbing.

*****

A grimness hung over the house when he arrived home from school. In a rare turn of events, his father was the one to greet him.

“Seijuurou,” he said, crouching down to one knee. (One of the few times he’d ever dared to try and be on Seijuurou’s level.) “Welcome home.”

“I’m home.”

“Your mother has passed,” he continued, his expression so blank Seijuurou couldn’t tell whether he mourned for her or not. “I know this may be difficult—”

Seijuurou weaved around him and climbed the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

He turned around near the top. His father stood once more, posture ramrod straight and eyes dull.

“Excuse me,” he said, though his voice trembled, “I have homework.”

For the next two weeks, the only thing Seijuurou left his room for was school.

*****

As the years went by, his ability didn’t hinder his ability to function. He never felt the wrongness on one of his friends, only acquaintances and occasionally teachers. He could handle the deaths of those he felt no connection to.

Seijuurou’s life continued as normal, as the proper child of the Akashi. (And if his friendships became tenuous at best and his eye changed from red to gold and he broke himself with stress, well, that was fine.)

The arrival of the Winter Cup his first year of highschool brought with it an opportunity to gather his friends again. Though he wasn’t sure he could still call them that. Those bonds had frayed in his hands, and he’d done nothing to stop it.

He sends out the message, expecting them to arrive at the designated meeting place on time, and they did. As usual, he felt a rush of relief when he sensed none of the _wrong_ ness hanging around them. And then Tetsuya showed up with an outsider, a teammate of his that Seijuurou was happy to ignore, until he felt it.

At first, he didn’t recognize it. The sense of something was still there, not entirely _bad_ , but strange. Similar, but different. It was enough that it made him want to get it away from his friends, his posture tense and words biting. That feeling, no matter how different with this boy, had no right being so near those he held in his esteem.

“There’s someone who shouldn’t be here.” He took a single step down the stairs. “Right now, I only want to talk to my comrades. Sorry, but can you leave?”

Before any response could be made, the cyclist came, and in barely a moment’s notice he felt the strange _different_ around the boy change into a screaming _wrong_ that Seijuurou knew all too well.

It happened too quickly. By the time anyone could make sense of exactly what happened, it was glaringly obvious it was too late. Even as Tetsuya tried to help him and Seijuurou called an ambulance, he knew the boy would die.

The boy lost consciousness quickly. Tetsuya stayed behind as the distraught Seirin team was summoned to collect him. He sat on the steps, observing. Part of him wanted to say something, but couldn’t bring himself to lie about a lost cause.

Then the world began to fade at the edges. Slowly, at first, and then faster, spiraling in as colors faded to muted gray and everything turned to black.

He woke up in his bed, and the day began again.

*****

Seijuurou massaged his forehead on his way to meeting with his former team. He’d woken that morning after the strangest, most elaborate dream he’d ever had. Most of the details had faded in the dream, so that only the climax remained crystal clear, but he’d spent the most of the day embroiled in an uncanny sense of déjà vu.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Tonight, he resolved to take a sleeping tablet to avoid further dreams like that one. It was distracting.

He took a moment to survey his surroundings and ensure he was heading the right way, when a figure some distance from his gave him pause. Leaning against his handlebars was a cyclist, phone in hand, frowning at the screen. Without thinking, he approached. When he was close enough to speak without raising his voice, Seijuurou was certain. He’d seen the same cyclist in his dream. The one whose carelessness led to the death of Tetsuya’s teammate.

Unbidden, Seijuurou spoke. “May I help you?”

“Oh!” The cyclist perked, turning from his phone. “Hi. Actually, I’m trying to a café to meet my friend, but it takes longer to get there by the main road, so I’m trying to cut through here to save time. Do you know any shortcuts?”

Seijuurou’s mouth thinned. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “You might not be aware, but the majority of this area is highly congested with pedestrian traffic, with the tournament taking place. It might be safer for you to go the long way and stick with recommended bike paths.”

The cyclist frowned, appearing as though he were about to protest, but then he huffed. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, you’re probably right. I’ll just do that, then.”

He waited until the cyclist headed out of the area before resuming his business. Satisfaction thrummed through him. Even though it was only a dream, his conscience felt better.

Except then he arrived at the meeting spot, late, and saw the same plain looking boy standing at Tetsuya’s side. He looked terrified and determined, and the same _different_ clung to every inch of him.

Suddenly, Seijuurou wasn’t so sure it was merely a dream.

*****

He managed to put it out of his head. Surely, he was being paranoid? People didn’t die and come back like it never happened. It wasn’t possible. (Just as his ability to sense coming deaths shouldn’t be possible, a traitorous portion of his mind whispered, but he’d gotten very good at shutting that part out.)

Then, in the final game of the Winter Cup, it happened again. This time, his own teammate was the one to cause harm to the strange boy—Furihata Kouki, he learned—before Seijuurou woke up in the morning, like it had all been a dream.

He spent the day with more vague recollections, more déjà vu he couldn’t explain, until the game. And then the boy was called out, his name the same as the dream and trembling just as hard so that he fell on his face.

After that, it became impossible to believe it was all a dream.

In addition to winning, a new conviction rose up in him. In order to avoid him befalling a similar fate as the not-dream, he kept himself strategically placed between him and Nebuya as much as possible. He would make sure that Furihata Kouki ended this game alive.

Because now, Seijuurou had some questions.

*****

The Winter Cup ended without him getting a chance to speak with Furihata Kouki, but he had enough to deal with in the meantime. Along with the resurgence of his previous self, integrating into the version of himself he’d developed since, he found himself desiring those old bonds with his teammates more than ever.

While defeat tasted bitter on his tongue, the fresh, strong ties building with his old friends soothed an aching part of him he’d staunchly ignored for too long.

With Kuroko’s approaching birthday, Seijuurou finally found an opportunity to speak with Furihata at the party. Kagami kept a spacious, clean home, perfect for a gathering of their size. Throughout the night he and Furihata engaged in light conversation, so that when the party wound down he felt comfortable asking him to speak in private.

“Umm,” Furihata twisted the hem of his shirt in his fingers. “Sure.”

Seijuurou smiled politely. “Wonderful. Follow me?”

Seijuurou led him out onto Kagami’s balcony. It afforded them some privacy with the door closed, though he saw a few people inside cast them curious and uncertain looks. He ignored them.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Furihata stood as far from Seijuurou as possible, clinging tightly to the railing, and careful to stay within the balcony’s confines. He cast a wary look over the railing, and immediately pulled back.

“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

Seijuurou’d thought it over several times in his head. Should he be blunt, and ask what was going on? Was Furihata even aware of his multiple deaths? Even now, the sense of _different_ stuck to him. Like a permanent fixture that at any moment could choose to shift into too-familiar _wrong_.

“Forgive me if this sounds strange, Furihata-san,” he began, “but I’ve been having a lot of concerning…experiences, of late, concerning you.”

Furihata’s attention definitely fixated on Seijuurou at that point, and his eyes darted across Seijuurou’s expression, growing more and more cautious. (And making him more and more convinced that Furihata definitely knew what he was hinting at.) “Okay?”

“Furihata-san,” Seijuurou closed the distance between them slightly, “are you aware that I’ve watched you die twice now?”


	3. Remain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *stumbles in crazy late* I’d give a proper excuse but it all comes back to me having a shit-tastic couple of weeks. But better late than never, yeah?
> 
> This chapter got away from me some, but the next should get more into their budding relationship. *glances at outline* Oh yeah that'll be fun.

“You remember?”

“So you _do_ know what I’m talking about.” Something like relief hovered in Akashi’s voice.

“I,” Kouki hesitated, “yes. I do. But I don’t— _understand_. How do you remember? _No one_ remembers!” When his voice grew too loud, he covered his mouth with his palm and shrank back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“It’s alright.” In contrast to Kouki’s fluster, Akashi seemed frustratingly calm. “I imagine you don’t talk about this very often.”

“No one believes me,” Kouki mumbled. Then, quicker, the words spilling through the newest crack in the dam. “My brother and parents thought I was trying to get attention, and there’s no way my friends wouldn’t have thought I was lying, and I know I’m rambling, sorry, I just—how do _you_ remember when even they don’t?”

Akashi leaned on the railing. He stayed silent for so long Kouki wasn’t sure he’d answer.

“It’s something I inherited from my mother,” he finally said. “My ability isn’t quite the same as hers was, but, in essence, I can tell when a person will die soon.” He cut a strong look Kouki’s way. “But you feel…strange. Different than the others. I’ve watched you die twice now, and each time I woke up like it never happened, with only the faintest memories leading up to the moments where you died—“

“Wait.” Kouki dropped his hands to his sides. “Twice? You’ve only relived two days?”

“Yes. Why?”

“But!” Kouki spluttered, face pinched. “But, I’ve died a few times this past week alone! I died _today!_ ”

The look that flooded Akashi’s face was one Kouki hadn’t known he could make. Eyes wide and lips parted, like he forgot how to speak. “No. I only remember the times when I saw it happen.”

Oh. Kouki lowered his gaze. He attempted to hide his trembling fingers by gripping the hem of his shirt. Well. It was probably good that Akashi didn’t relive _all_ his deaths. He can imagine what an inconvenience it would be to relive so many days because of someone he barely knew.

They listened to passing cars far below for a while.

“How often does this happen?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard, but it did. “O-oh! Uh.” He fidgeted. “Not _every_ day, but every other day? Every couple of days? Something like that.”

It grew quiet again, and Kouki edged toward the day when Akashi didn’t say anything again. “I’m gonna go inside,” he said. “Sorry you’ve had to deal with this, Akashi-kun.”

“Furihata-kun.” Kouki paused at the sudden, strong response. Akashi pulled his phone from his pocket. “Give me your number, please.”

“Eh?” Kouki stood ramrod straight. “Why?”

“You aren’t the only one with secrets they can’t talk about.” Akashi stared out over the balcony, his eyes lidded. “There aren’t many people who would believe me if I told them were going to die. Perhaps by having contact with someone who understands, we can help each other in some small way.”

Kouki hesitated. Akashi intimidated him in a way no one else ever had before. He carried a presence too large for Kouki and others to ignore. But he wanted _Kouki’s_ number, and in a strange way, in this situation they were on equal grounds of uncertainty.

Maybe. Maybe it would be nice. To have someone to talk to.

Kouki took out his phone.

They traded numbers, and headed inside. Kouki split off to talk to his friends. Fukuda asked what they talked about, and Kouki made something up. At one point he and Akashi ended up sitting next to one another, and they made small talk through the night.

*****

Two days later, Kouki sent the first text.

Furihata Kouki  
                _Hello, Akashi-kun._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _Good afternoon. I’m surprised. I thought I’d have to contact you first. How are you?_

Furihata Kouki  
                _I’m alright._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _That’s good._

Furihata Kouki  
                _How are you?_

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _I’m doing well._

*****

 _Awkward._ Their original conversations were so incredibly awkward. For the first few weeks they all came out like that, stilted pleasantries and half-hearted inquiries.

After school one day, Kouki stared down at his phone as he walked. He wanted to reply differently and stir up some actual conversation that _didn’t_ fill him with awkward embarrassment. As he typed, trying not to sound boring or stupid, he didn’t pay attention to his surroundings.

A truck swerved onto the sidewalk, and pinned him to a tree. Tears sprung to his eyes. He turned his gaze to the mess of gore that spilled from his stomach and chest, bile sharp in his mouth.

He barely registered the screaming around him as his head fell back against the tree. Well. At least this one would end quick.

*****

In the relived version of the day, he hunted down the cat that caused the truck to swerve, and held onto it until the truck passed by. As it scampered off, he pulled out his phone and continued his walk home.

He contemplated Akashi’s message. Without pausing to second-guess himself, he fired off a text.

Furihata Kouki  
_In another version of today, I just died._

He regretted it almost immediately after hitting send. Why did he do that? Why did he say that? Sure, being able to tell someone without sounding like a nutjob was nice, but just because he _could_ didn’t mean he _should._ Certainly that wasn’t something Akashi wanted to hear about.

But Akashi’s response didn’t berate him for his awkward bluntness.

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _Are you okay?_

Oh. Kouki blinked a few times.

Furihata Kouki  
                _Yeah, I’m fine._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _What happened?_

He actually wanted to know?

Furihata Kouki  
                _A truck swerved to miss a cat. Got pinned to a tree._

It took a while for Akashi to respond. Kouki arrived home and shut himself in his room before his phone _pinged!_ an alert.

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _Are you certain you’re okay?_

Furihata Kouki  
                _Yeah. I stopped the cat from running into the road this time. No accident at all._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _It must be hard._

Kouki looked down at his still shaky knees.

Furihata Kouki  
                _It can be._

*****

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _What’s it like?_

The question came after two months of casual texting. Most of their conversations consisted of bland pleasantries, occasionally peppered with bits of shared information about their unique situation. Kouki told him when he died, sometimes. It was nice, having someone to acknowledge what was happening to him. Not having to keep quiet. Rarely, Akashi told him about the people he could tell was going to die. It didn’t happen often, and they were all people Akashi didn’t know or barely knew.

When it came, the question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Actually, he was surprised Akashi hadn’t asked sooner, but it still caught him off guard.

Kouki pulled the blanket tighter around himself. His bed felt warm, the blanket soft. He covered himself in fresh pajamas and comfort, and it made the churning in his stomach calm a little. Just what he needed after drowning in an alternate version of the day.

He must have taken too long to answer, because his phone _pinged!_ with another text.

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m merely curious._

Furihata Kouki  
                _It’s not that. I just don’t know where to start._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _Wherever feels right._

Kouki snuggled against his pillow. Slowly, he began typing.

Furihata Kouki  
                _It’s sudden. I never have any warning. Violent. I feel like I was more affected by the pain the first times, but I’ve gotten used to it by now._

Akashi Seijuurou  
                _Doesn’t it ever scare you?_

The chuckle that escaped Kouki sounded watery. He tapped out a response, and shoved his burning eyes further into the pillow.

Furihata Kouki  
                _That’s just the thing. I’m always scared._

*****

Akashi asked to meet up the next time he was in Tokyo. It didn’t seem like the normal, friendly invitation to hang out that Kouki was used to receiving. After meeting at the train station, he assured Akashi that it would be okay to go somewhere public. He’d already died once that day. It was rare to die from two different causes in the same day. He’d probably be fine.

They went to a park. Kouki’d been there many times before as a child. Died once or twice, too, but that wasn’t important.

When they arrived, the park was near empty. Of course, the sun was starting to set, so it made sense that the children had been ushered away their homes. They perch on empty swings, and Kouki watched the pull of the chain and checked the supporting bars before daring too much movement. For Kouki, there was no such thing as a truly safe place.

“Not that I mind,” Kouki said, “but why did you want to meet up today?”

Akashi exhaled, a rough sound. “One of my teachers is going to die today, if she hasn’t already.”

Kouki bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

Akashi shook his head. “We weren’t close, but I respected her.”

“You care enough that you came to me.”

Akashi slumped in his swing, gripping the chains tight until his knuckles turned white. “I never know how it’s going to happen. If it will be peaceful, or if they’ll suffer first. I wish I…”

He fell silent, rigid in his seat.

“I bet she’d be happy,” Kouki whispered, “if she knew you were this concerned about her.”

“I don’t know how you stand it.” He turned toward Kouki, pale face wan and lined with stress. “I’ve been taught my entire life that there’s no room for uncertainties. But all this time, I’ve been able to know the when and not the how. How do you deal with only having half the answer to one big question?”

Kouki stayed quiet, rocking in his swing. This was the most Akashi’d ever opened up to him, and he didn’t want to interrupt. After a moment, he continued.

“I know how my mother did it. Her ability was worse than mine. She constantly saw the potential deaths of others played out all around her, and she hid herself away because of it. Sometimes, I’ve thought of doing the same, and all I’m doing is _sensing_ death.” Akashi’s hands went slack, and slipped down the chains. “How can you stand the uncertainty? Never knowing if each death might be your last?”

In the silence that followed, Kouki heard the unspoken question. _Why aren’t you like her?_

Kouki kicked at the crunchy gravel beneath his feet. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“The first time he saw me die, Kiyoshi-senpai didn’t cry.” Kouki waved his hands. “He was sad! Don’t get me wrong. I could tell how upset he was. But we didn’t know each other well, then. Now, though…last week I fell down the stairs in front of him, and hit my head on a step _really_ hard.”

“I remember,” Akashi said. “You messaged me about it.”

Kouki nodded. “Kiyoshi-senpai got really upset. I’ve never seen him like that. He screamed for help and comforted me like there weren’t tears on his face.” Kouki’s voice dropped, lined with distress. “Is it wrong that that made me a little happy? That he cried for me?

“Knowing that there’s someone who’ll cry when you’re gone—isn’t that comforting?”

Akashi sat utterly still in his swing, intense gaze focused on Kouki.

So he continued. “When I die for the last time,” his words came out quiet, with a faint quiver, “I want to go knowing that I made someone happy enough that they’d miss me. I can’t do that locked away in my room. Doesn’t that make each relived moment worth it?

“The fact that you came here today,” Kouki swallowed thickly, “proving that no matter how she’s dying, someone cares enough to remember. Don’t you think that’s reassuring?”

Akashi shut his eyes to take a deep breath, and when he opened them, some of the strain was gone from his expression. “You might be right.”

A peaceful hush fell over them, blurred by the muffled sound of cars and city life in the distance. Tentatively, Kouki too hold of Akashi’s jacket sleeve at the wrist. “Hey, Akashi?”

“Hm?”

“Would—” he stumbled over his words, “—would you cry for me? If I was gone?”

Akashi reached over with his other hand, covering Kouki’s knuckles with his palm. Cool skin pressed against Kouki’s own warmth as Akashi squeezed. “I would.”

Kouki leaned his head on the swing chain. He smiled. “I’m glad.”


End file.
